One Mr Ianto Jones
by misskam
Summary: He wasn't 'Artemis Fowl' any more – a trip to a secure London safe that Butler had long ago set up provided him with a passport, an identity, a fake CV with references that would check out, bank accounts, a phone, and crucially, contacts.


Artemis yawned to himself. He was stuck somewhere between the world of the sleeping and the world of the awake. His mind, was, of course, still functioning on an intellectual level – the more serious part of his brain was determining the time, and date, the weather, his location in relation to other people, who these people were. The list was endless, but Artemis' didn't need to open his eyes to recall exactly where he lay his head the night before.

Granted it wasn't exactly the most appealing of spots, but it reflected his dour mood. Butler was dead thanks to him, not in a flash of glory or a deep underworld battle with Goblins – nothing memorable. Walking to the bank, Butler had got a 'feeling' and that was it. Shot through the heart, taking a bullet for Artemis. The way it was meant to be, Artemis supposed. Now Holly was gone too – transferred to Australia for a calmer lifestyle, her physiologists has recommended it. Artemis' endeavours stressed her out beyond her limits.

So all his ties with the world were cut. He was, once again, nameless. Like the day he was born, utterly alone and nameless, helpless. Artemis rolled upright and chastised himself. He was alone, but nameless? Helpless? He almost laughed at that. He was Artemis Fowl the Second, and that would have to change, he supposed, if he was going to re-invent himself. He could be anyone he wanted to be now. The idea had occurred to him a few months after Butler's funeral. He was too old now for a bodyguard, and he needed a job, an ordinary job. But nothing ordinary, otherwise he would become bored – god forbid.

As for helpless? He had used his credit card and a fake (Very convincing fake) ID to book himself into a hotel in London. He wasn't sure why London – but he had wanted to go to Europe, so it was via London or swim. And swimming would ruin his suit. Artemis dressed quickly, checking his appearance in the mirror.

He'd learnt from a young age that appearance was key – key to fitting in, key to persuasion, key to business. He scrutinized his own reflection. Highly polished shoes, smart, faintly pinstriped trousers, a white shirt and striped tie. A black blazer. He was just another office worker. His hair, in reality, was becoming too long to be practical, and Butler would have had him with clippers by now, but until it reached his collar at the back, Artemis would let it grow. Butler was almost military – he hadn't realized that the majority of late-teen boys wore their hair without a great deal of style or purpose. His eyes, he quickly put in two coloured contacts, a smudgy colour between the left brown and the right ice blue – that made his eyes a murky hazel colour. He could do with a shave, but having no belonging with him, it would have to wait. He had to find a job.

Two weeks later, Artemis was no better off. He wasn't 'Artemis Fowl' any more – a trip to a secure London safe that Butler had long ago set up provided him with a passport, an identity, a fake CV with references that would check out, bank accounts, a phone, and crucially, contacts. He'd met a small Indian woman who had passed him a small smile and a hotel key. The hotel, he was furious to find, was one in Cardiff, Wales. Wales? He had never been to Wales in his life. Ever. He had never had a desire to go to Wales. Sure, he'd woken up before, an announced he was leaving for Australia, Madagascar, Venice. . . . Never _Wales_.

Now he had grown up there his entire life, apparently. His new identity – "Ianto Jones" was a Welsh boy born and bred, lived in London, working for a firm called Torchwood – which Artemis was about to look up when his train arrived. He had brought the essentials, a laptop, Blackberry, suitcase full of clothes and toiletries; and had booked a ticket to his new location. Now he just had to learn who he was.

The train ride was uneventful. Artemis spent it soaking up as much information about Torchwood London as possible, and about Wales. He was fairly certain he knew more about Cardiff that even its residents did. But this Torchwood, it had taken him several minutes to find it's secure location on the internet, and then he had driven head first, hypothetically, into its world. Fascinating. . . . When he had been lurking underground with Holly. . . . Torchwood had been springing up into the air. Aliens. Artemis knew of them, of course, and their debris which littered his planet – but he hadn't realised the extent of their visits. Butler had picked his identity well.

Artemis booked into a hotel and took off and hung his suit in the closet. It was nice, spacious. Sterile. Perfect for a travelling Fowl. He dressed in slightly more casual jeans, a shirt and light jacket. A young man going out on the town. Apart from the fact that he wasn't looking for drink or drugs.

Artemis was in fact strolling the evening air in search of the nearest portal to the Fae world when he encountered something. Artemis felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up – something Butler had taught him to trust. He turned slowly, bending his knees into what he believed to be a fighting stance. He watched the face, a profile that was searched and indentified by Artemis' brain as a Weevil.

He let his brain provide him with the relevant information and course of action while remaining very, _very_ still. The weevil approached him - Not Artemis, but the man in front of the weevil. Dressed in a long coat that was partially shadowed in the darkness. The man grappled with it, and Artemis watched, watching while thinking. The man seemed to know of weevils, and was fighting accordingly, but he was losing ground.

Artemis sighed mentally as his legs began moving. They had devolved to now rolling around on the dirty ground. Artemis picked up a hefty looking branch and weighed it in his hand. Not the ideal weapon; his brain had suggested a lead pipe or baseball bat, but under the current circumstances. . .

He wasn't entirely sure what he had planned on doing afterwards; venting his anger on a living being was surprisingly therapeutic despite the psychotic nature it suggested he had. But when the weevil turned and looked at him, jumping him; he didn't think he'd ever be gladder to see another man jump up, ever inelegant and impolite, from the ground to tackle it away from him. As the man and weevil moved a few feet away, he dropped the stick. His mind replayed the last scene as the weevil finaly collapsed.

'Thanks' Artemis found himself saying when the awkward silence followed.

'No, thank you' the man replied. Another pause, filled with panting breaths. 'And, you are. . .' the statement was left hanging, not quite a question.

'Ianto Jones' he replied, offering a hand.

**Thank you for reading!**


End file.
